


Story-Wise

by goingsparebutwithprecision



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, Post-Canon, Thorin and Company - Freeform, old norse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingsparebutwithprecision/pseuds/goingsparebutwithprecision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tale of the Story-Wise Icelander</p>
            </blockquote>





	Story-Wise

Two figures stood on the top of a hill at dusk, and looked down into the valley below. Night was falling, and stars were rising, and the distant mountains were still lightly outlined in the fading traces of the sunset.

The taller of the two, made even taller by the tall grey hat drooping on his tall grey head, lent on his staff and looked down at his companion.

“Are you sure you want to do this, old friend?”

For a moment, it was as if he had not heard him; the second figure, shorter by a very long way, with thick curly hair and a preoccupied expression, continued to stare downwards. In the far distance, wavering in the dark, burned a light. Its flame was warm and friendly, welcoming; it seemed to offer shelter from the shadow, food and fellowship and a soft bed for the night, and he kept his eyes fixed upon it.

The grey-hatted figure harrumphed, and the curly-haired one started, then squared his shoulders and said “Of course I’m sure. After all, I do owe them an unexpected meeting.”

There was a sound like a chuckle from high above his head, but the voice that followed was quietly seriously.

“Take care, won’t you? They will not be the same, even as you are not the same, as when you set foot out your door all those years ago. Too much has passed, and passed away.”

“I know,” the second figure said, never taking his eyes off that distant light. “But I have to try, I have to-“

He shuffled his feet, and offered a hand, which was firmly shaken, and set off, alone, into the dark.

 

The sky was dusty purple and fading to black, the night the storyteller came. The king welcomed him easily into his home, for it had been a long time since he had heard a good story, and so he was happy for the storyteller to pass the winter with them. Winter is a good season for stories, the king knows, with the wisdom of his long years, remembers the crackling of the fire against the roaring of the gale, and the soft, sing-song voice of a storyteller threaded between them. It makes the days of inaction pass quicker, the long nights seem shorter, the short days a blessing. And besides, he has heard every story his companions have to tell, a hundred times or more. They are brave companions, noble friends, but none of them can spin a story worth a damn.

This will be a good winter, the king thinks, and watches the storyteller. He seems slightly bemused by his reception, as though he was expecting unkind words or even blows, at the very least to be turned from the door. Not every king is kind, the king knows, and the life of a storyteller is a finely-walked line between his king’s good humour and his king’s displeasure. He hopes, that as the winter passes, the storyteller will grow more comfortable among them, will learn that this house is a good one, a generous one, and not one to throw an excellent teller of tales out among the winter winds and wolves without very serious cause.

The storyteller walks among the king’s companions, curious and light on his feet, eyes wide and wondering. They are a messy, boisterous lot, the king is well aware, and he would have them no other way, but perhaps the storyteller is accustomed to quieter halls and calmer friends. He listens intently to them all, to their jokes and songs and laughter, and starts sometimes, as though to join in, then catches himself before he can speak. They’ll soon break him of that habit, the king thinks, with a hidden smile, no one can stay reserved among this company for long. Except perhaps the king himself, but he is louder than he has been, and happier, in these days of peace.

“There was a man and he had three sons,” the teller of tales begins, and the hall grows quiet, a hollow of warmth and fire in the shadows of the night, and listens.

 

Sometimes the king catches the story-teller watching him. It is not surprising, for the storyteller watches all of them, from time to time, carefully, warily, as though expecting to be chastised, and when he thinks no one is watching him watch (the king is often watching, for a watchful king is a ready king, and the habits of a lifetime – especially one as long as his – are hard to break), fondly too. But he watches the king most of all. It is a sensible trait, for a storyteller, indeed for any visitor to the hall who serves at the king’s pleasure, but somehow the king doesn’t think this is why. He does not think there is much of what is personal to attract the storyteller’s eye, he is not so very remarkable in that regard, and yet that is how the storyteller looks at him. Personally, fondly, with that odd note of wonder that creeps into his gaze when he views the company, too, and far behind that, a deep, all-encompassing sadness.

Perhaps the king reminds him of someone he once knew.

That is most likely the case. The company reminds him of better days, better halls, and better friends, but the king reminds him of someone specific, someone important. The resemblance must be striking, to account for how intently the storyteller watches.

The king wonders if he should feel angry, that the storyteller so clearly looks at him and sees someone else, for it is beneath the dignity of a king to be merely a shadow of another, but he does not. He is simply glad, as he always is, for the storyteller’s company.

 

The days grow colder at a speed which shocks, even though it has been long expected. The king notices the storyteller shivering one day, and wonders who comes to a hall this far north without a good coat, but times may be hard, where the storyteller comes from, after all. He makes a note to commission a coat at first opportunity, but he is beaten to the punch, several times over. The youngest of their number has made the storyteller gloves, which he hands over shyly and over which the storyteller stutters in thanks. The oldest produces a scarf from a long forgotten corner of the hall, soft and worn comfortable with time, and the toymaker finds a hat, somewhere, that is somehow just as ridiculous as his own, albeit in a very different fashion. The king is amused to see the storyteller squeak in fright when approached by the burliest of the hall fighters, towering over him like a giant of the far off mountains, only to be offered, grumpily, a pair of thick woollen socks. The gift-giver stomps off without waiting for thanks (or indeed to mention that he knitted them himself, the king notes with a smirk), leaving the storyteller with his mouth hanging open. For someone who makes his living from words, he is surprisingly often lost for them.

The company gather to present the coat, the king watching from a distance as he pretends to listen to his seneschal, and the storyteller seems close to tears. He strokes it reverently, as though he has never seen anything so fine, and thanks them in a whisper. The king’s nephew puts him in a friendly headlock and ruffles his hair with his knuckles, then goes to find something to eat. Or some trouble to get into. Perhaps even both. The company disperse, with pats on the back and claps to the shoulder, which the storyteller barely seems to notice. He stands, and stares at the coat for a long time, running his fingers over the buttons.

It matters not that the storyteller does not always have the words, for his face speaks as eloquently (if not more so) than his mouth ever could.

 

The king rides out on patrol, a few weeks before Yule. The hall is already a chaos of preparation, full of laughter and movement and getting-under-foot, and the king is sorry to leave it, yet happy to find some quiet beneath the snow-laden sky. Besides, he has not swung a sword in days, and it will not do to leave his borders undefended, even at a time such as this.

There is likely to be little need, he will admit, but it is good to ride, nevertheless, with blood singing, across the land and know that he is home.

The sun is low in the sky, the king about to turn back and bring his party to rest, when they find the trolls.

It is a vicious fight, swiftly ended, and the king enjoys it immensely, and the more so when no injuries are revealed in the aftermath. They descend into the darkness of the beasts’ lair, prepared to clear a larger nest, and instead find metal glinting in the depths. There is a short blade, and a mail coat, among many other treasures, less practical yet as beautifully wrought, and the king thinks immediately of the storyteller, and of how, when startled, his hand will jump to his hip, as though expecting the comfort of a sword-hilt. Certainly the blade is too small for any other member of their company, and it will make an excellent early Yule gift. And not just for the storyteller, the king thinks with a chuckle, for his nephews will surely wish to instruct the storyteller in its use, howsoever experienced he may be, and such a prospect will be to the entertainment of all who behold it.

 

The storyteller is sitting on a bench by the door, smoking a pipe and blowing smoke rings to the moon. The king once knew a man who blew whole ships, and trees, and dragons – no, that does not seem at all likely. The storyteller stares up at the sky, and puffs gently away, and every now and then smooths a hand over the deep red of his new coat.

“Storyteller,” the king rumbles.

“Your majesty,” the storyteller says, with a small happy twitch at the corner of his mouth, and the king takes that as permission to sit beside him, planting his feet away from the wall and leaning back to look at the stars.

The storyteller offers him his pipe, and the king takes it, puffs a smoke ring into the night. They sit in companionable silence, for a little while, as the dark grows deeper and the stars brighter, passing the pipe back and forth between them.

“Was your trip a success, my lord?” the storyteller asks, and the king smiles.

“Yes,” he says, with no small degree of satisfaction, remembering the weight of the sword in his hand and the ice of the wind on his face. “And that reminds me-“

The storyteller watches as the king moves, slightly apprehensive, and the king smirks. “We found a little treasure in a cave in the woods.”

He retrieves the short sword from where it leans against the wall, and hands it to the storyteller.

“Thanks,” the storyteller says, eyes running the length of the blade, “but I already have a letter-opener.”

The king opens his mouth, closes it, and laughs. The storyteller watches him, with that faint, surprised, pleased expression he always gets when the king laughs, or smiles, or claps him on the back and says “Storyteller” in a low, affectionate way, and the king nudges him with a shoulder. “Sometimes you seem to miss a blade at your side,” he says. “God knows it’s too small for anyone else in this place.”

The storyteller draws it, slowly, and it is clear that he has held a blade before, even if he wishes that maybe he hadn’t, and that he thinks it beautiful, all the same.

He clears his throat, and shuffles, a little, and says “I don’t, I mean, you shouldn’t…thank you, my king,” and seems both pleased and embarrassed. The king bumps him in the shoulder again, and the storyteller looks at him indignantly, then grins at the expression on his face.

“My nephews will want to teach you to use it, you know,” the king says.

“Oh, will they?” the storyteller says, thoughtfully. Mischief is tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Very presumptuous of them, I thought,” the king says, throwing kindling on the fire.

“Oh, absolutely,” says the storyteller, smile widening. “Very presumptuous. Bit of a character flaw, that, heirs to the throne and all.”

“Indeed,” says the king, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Could be catastrophic in a tactical situation.”

“As you say,” the king says, in his best attempt at a neutral tone.

“Well,” says the storyteller, straightening up. “I suppose something had better be done about it.”

“I look forward to it.”

 

“How…are…you… _doing_ …that?” the heir puffs, braids swinging as he whirls around, then barks indignantly as the storyteller ducks under his arm and smacks him on the backside with the flat of his blade. “OI!”

The hall is ringing with the clang of blades, and with laughter. The king chuckles into his beard, watches as the company shout encouragement, insults and advice as the storyteller ducks and weaves, too quick to catch. He is not a spectacular swordsman, but he is fast, and scrappy, and he is certainly making the king’s nephews work for their supper.

“Say…Uncle,” the storyteller pants, pushing sweat-slicked curls out of his eyes.

The brothers exchange glances, and drop their swords.

“Well, good,” says the storyteller, sheathing his own blade and bending down, putting hands on his knees as he fights for breath, “I’m glad you finally see sense-“, and that is why he does not see the brothers charge until it is much too late.

They roll around on the floor, and there is pulling of hair and what the king thinks might be tickling, until they collapse, breathless, laughing, to the ground.

The king offers the storyteller a hand up, and he takes it, grinning ruefully.

“No, seriously,” the younger brother says, “ _where_ did you learn that?”

“Oh, well,” says the storyteller, stopping short and rocking a little on his feet. “A friend of mine taught me.”

“A friend?”

“I-“ the storyteller’s fists clench and unclench, and he looks anywhere but at their eyes. “I- yes, a friend. I think. In the end. Yes.”

“What happened to him?” asks the least tactful of the king’s nephews, curious.

The storyteller’s face stills. It is horrible to watch, something usually so full of motion, and emotion, as talkative and expressive as the man himself, with as little life as a dead thing found withered in the woods.

“Nothing good,” he says, distantly, and he seems…very far away, in that moment.

The king cannot stand it. “You did,” he says. The storyteller looks at him, eyes wide. “You happened to him.”

The storyteller gives that twitch of a half-smile, scrubs a hand across his eyes, looks at the floor. “I guess I did, yeah. But that wasn’t…that wasn’t always a good thing.” He will not meet the king’s gaze, but he lays a light hand on his shoulder as he walks past, and the king takes that as permission, (although he is a king, and does not in fact require permission) to follow him as he leaves.

They sit on the bench in silence, where they had been smoking not so very long ago, and the king waits, close enough to feel the warmth of the storyteller’s skin, but not enough to touch, and waits for him to speak.

“You remind me of him, y’know,” he says, eventually, and the king is not surprised. “If he’d had a chance to grow up a bit. Be the king he was supposed to be. To go home.”

“You miss him.” It is not a question.

“I do, yeah.” The storyteller sighs, and leans his head back against the wall. “God, he was a stubborn bastard.”

The king chuckles, a little, then catches himself. The storyteller does not smile, not openly. But his eyes are warmer, somehow, he smiles with his eyes, and they sit in silence and watch the day go by.

 

Yule is growing nearer still, and the preparations are taking on the character of a frenzy. The storyteller wanders through unregarded, occasionally underfoot, asking, always asking, if there is anything he can do. He thinks longer before he begins his tales, now, returns to old favourites and dresses them in new clothes, and the king thinks he appears sadder than he used to. It is an odd counterpoint to the rising tide of Yuletide joy that is sweeping through the hall, and so the king decides to ask him about it. Centuries ago, perhaps he would not have bothered. Would have considered it beneath his dignity to fret over a mere storyteller, would not have even noticed. As little as a hundred years ago, perhaps, he would have noticed, and worried, but have had little idea of what to do about it, and would have been soundly teased for his troubles.

The king is older now, and he thinks the world perhaps is simpler than it often appears to the young. The storyteller is sad, and so the king will ask him why. And then, if it is within his power, he will resolve it. Besides, he has an inkling of what may be troubling him, and if that be so it is a little matter, easily fixed.

“Is something troubling you, storyteller?” the king asks, when he finds him one morning, curled up into his favourite alcove, and watching the company bustle by. “You have seemed out of sorts, of late.”

“Your majesty,” the storyteller says, straightening, “I didn’t mean to cause offence-“

The king waves a hand. “There is none taken. Only tell me what distresses you, and I will see to it that the matter is brought to a close.”

“It’s nothing,” the storyteller says, glancing away. He is a twitchy little thing when questioned, the king has noticed, especially when he lies, or the question is unwelcome. His hand will dart to a pocket, his feet (oversized on so small a man, and the subject of no small amount of ribbing from the company) will tap, his eyes and fingers will dart hither and thither, all motions made casual with practice, and yet. It is somewhat endearing that he thinks he has any secrets here, after he has been with them so long, and been taken so thoroughly under their wing. “Just a touch of the glooms. It will pass, my king.”

“That is not it,” says the king, reprovingly. “I suspect I know what irks you.”

“Do you, now,” the storyteller says, glancing at him sidelong with a sideways smile. The king is always happy to see the storyteller look at him like this, as though he is pleased with them and the friendship they have struck up, as though the king is as transparent at spring ice and far more amusing. “Well, guess away, my king, although I doubt you’ll have much luck. Given, after all, that there is nothing whatsoever the matter.”

“I suspect,” the king says, slowly, “that you have run out of stories.” The storyteller stills beside him, and the king leans against the corner of the alcove, arms folded, and continues, looking out over the hall. “All winter, you have told stories to everyone who has asked you, and now Yule approaches, and you have nothing to say.”

The corner of the storyteller’s mouth twitches. “A masterful effort, my king, and correct in almost every particular. I have but one story left to tell, and I am not sure I dare to tell it here, for it is the story of your travels.”

The king had guessed as much. Sometimes the storyteller will say things that a man unacquainted with the travails of the king’s youth would have no reason to know, or to say. He does not always notice the slip, but when he does, his mouth goes thin and his eyes press shut for a second, as though he is taking the time to tell himself off inside his head. It is entertaining to watch, and the king will sometimes bait him in the hope of tripping him up in this way. When he does, the usual motions are often followed by a glare, as though the storyteller knows that the king is up to something, and is thoroughly unimpressed with his efforts.

The king wonders how intently he has been watching the storyteller, that he notices such things, but he has more pressing matters to attend to, and so he puts it from his mind.

“And, that, Master Storyteller, is exactly the story I most desire to hear.”

The storyteller looks at him as though he has gone out of his wits.

“Now,” the king says, a plan taking shape in his mind, “tell no more stories until Yule. Indeed, I doubt you will be asked, for everyone is busy. But on the first day of Yule, begin the story, and tell but a little of it. I will arrange it for you so that the story lasts as long as Yule does. There will be much feasting, and drinking, and singing of songs and playing of games, and so there will be little time for lengthy tales, and none shall be any the wiser.

“You’re…you’re actually serious, aren’t you?” asks the storyteller. “You really want to hear this story? Of all the possible stories in the world, you want to hear this one? Now?”

“No time finer,” says the king, already thinking of other things. “And I shall take care to sit so that you cannot see my reaction, for nothing puts a storyteller off like the sight of his subject’s face.”

The storyteller chuckles. “But when it is such a handsome face, my lord-“

The king elbows him in the side. “You old flatterer,” he says, and the storyteller laughs.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true, my king,” he says, and then glances at him, sideways, suddenly serious.

“Thank you,” he says, and the king feels like maybe the storyteller is not just thankful for a way out of his quandary. But before he can ask (indeed, how can he ask?) the storyteller is gone.

 

It is the first day of Yule, and the excitement in the air is tangible, the anticipation as sharp as the wind outside. The first flakes of snow are falling from the heavy clouds of the sky, and somehow a rumour, the barest whisper, has let slip which tale the teller of tales will tell tonight. Darkness falls, the fire rises, the company feasts and drinks, gives gifts and sings songs, warm and snug and mead-silly, and all with an undercurrent of breathless expectation. They pass the hours, slower and sleepier, warm and satiated, as the fire sinks low, smoulders in the hearth. The food is done, the conversation slows, and all eyes draw, inevitably, to the slight figure of the storyteller, as he perches, cross-legged, in the middle of the hall, and awaits his king’s command.

Silence falls. The company teeters, spellbound, on the brink of adventure.

The king nods.

The storyteller draws breath.

“In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit.”

 

It is a beautiful spring morning, the day the storyteller leaves. It is quiet, and peaceful, and he does not wake a soul, slips past the slow easy mutter of the kitchen at dawn, the rumbling and snuffling and occasional murmurs of the company at rest, and finds the king waiting outside.

“Must you go?”

The storyteller starts, and stares, and the king wishes to hurt whoever has made him think that his departure would not be noticed, that he could slip away unremarked and leave them without.

“I-“ he stumbles. “Yes, I must. I can’t stay, really, I hadn’t meant to-“

“You have not even asked how I liked the story.”

“I was afraid to ask,” the storyteller says, and looks at his toes.

“It was a long time ago,” the king says, “and my memory is hazy. But it is a good story, and a truthful one, and all in all no better than the matter deserved.”

“Deserved?” the storyteller splutters, “ _deserved_? I can’t believe you wanted me to tell that story, how could you possibly-“

“I like to think I am wiser now,” the king says, wryly, “at least so much that I can admit my mistakes.”

The storyteller opens and closes his mouth several times, raises a hand to punctuate the speech that never comes.

“I treated my burglar abominably, did I not?”

“Well,” says the storyteller, reasonably, “not so very abominably. You were not yourself. But yes, dangling somebody off a very high wall for trying to save your life-“

The king laughs, and holds up a quelling hand. “Peace, master storyteller. You are quite right. But you do not have to go, you know, just because you have run out of stories.”

“That’s,” the storyteller sighs. “That’s not why. Not really. But I do have to, to go, I mean, and I can’t just -“

The king puts his hands on the slighter man’s shoulders, and looks at him until he looks back, lips pressed tightly shut, gaze steady and sad.

“You are ever welcome in my home, Bilbo Baggins, and the home of my kin, until the breaking of the world.”

The storyteller’s eyes widen, and before he can dart away or begin talking, or stuttering, or mouthing like a fish, the king leans down, and kisses him on the forehead.

“Go,” the king says, for he knows better than to try and keep what is not his, knows better, really, than to hoard anything or anyone at all, “and know peace.”

“I am,” the storyteller stops, and clears his throat, and the king watches his eyes glisten and does not draw him nearer, however much he might wish to. “I am proud to know you, Thorin Oakenshield,” he says, finally, a crack in his voice.

The king hugs him, then, envelopes his tiny frame and mutters a goodbye into the tousled curls, and pretends not to watch as the storyteller leaves.

 

Two figures stood on a hilltop, and watched the mist rise out of the valley.

“They don’t remember, Gandalf,” the shorter one said, voice hitching. “Not about me, not about the Arkenstone-“

“But they’re happy,” said the wizard, watching Bilbo carefully. “Aren’t they?”

Bilbo rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Yes,” he says, looking up, “yes, I suppose they are,” with a flash of a smile.

“Then all is well, is it not, Bilbo Baggins?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, meeting Gandalf’s eyes with a rueful smile. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Time to be going, then,” Gandalf said, and offered Bilbo a hand up.

The wizard’s cart trundled away, through the trees and into the mountains, two trails of pipe-smoke trailing up behind it in the still morning air, and after a while, a voice lifted up in song.

“The road goes ever on and on-“ And the cart vanished into the dawn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This owes everything to Jane Smiley's collection of Icelandic Sagas (I would highly recommend it: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Sagas-Icelanders-World/dp/0141000031), with something left over for all the feelings I didn't know what to do with post-Five Armies. The Tale of the Story-Wise Icelander is what's called a þattr in Old Norse - they're a lot shorter than sagas, and tend to feature an Icelander going off to the court of a foreign king, making a name for himself, and coming home again richer and more heroic than he left. This fits Middle Earth quite well, I think - farmers without kings (i.e. hobbits) going off and having adventures in the service of kings in other lands. Knowing Tolkien, this might have been intentional, now that I think about it...(although hobbits are a lot less bloodthirsty than your average saga-Icelander).
> 
> Also, I was late to the Old Norse literature lecture in which I would have learned more about this, because I got distracted by rewriting the text the lecture was on *shrugs*.


End file.
